Reach Out Your Hand
by Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit
Summary: Treville's deposed, Rochefort mocks them at every turn, Milady is flaunting her position as the King's mistress and their burden grows heavier each day, but Athos is coping… until he isn't. Athos has done something unforgivable and the days of the Inseparables are numbered, unless they can find another motive behind a violent act.
1. Blood, Spilled

**WARNING:** _This story centres around the subject of suicide. If you're in a vulnerable place, please give it a pass. I write fanfiction for my own mental health, and I would never want to jeopardise anyone else's heath for that reason._

_If you want to know the details, please check out the end of this chapter for a slightly spoilery summery._

* * *

**Reach Out Your Hand**

8 8 8

**One: Blood, Spilled**

* * *

"Can he hear me?"

Athos hated that voice. It made him feel sick inside, sending shivers up his spine and his flesh creeping.

"Of that I'm not quite sure, Monsieur. I've never had a chance to ask."

He hadn't realised his eyes were closed until someone pried one of them open. The face before him was a blur of pulsing light, an incomprehensible mix of flesh-tones and shadow.

"Pretty eyes. They're too soft for a man." A thumb feathered across his eyelashes, and Athos felt a tear escape to run down his cheek. "I'd always thought they were blue, but now they look green, don't they?"

He wasn't quite as repulsed by the second voice, either because he didn't know it, or because there was comfort in the fact that it came from further away. At the moment, Athos couldn't think of a sensation more distressing than the hot breath ghosting across the side of his face, but he seemed unable to move away.

"Do you think he'd undress himself?" asked the far-away voice.

"Mmm. Perhaps his doublet. Leave his boots on. Let's say he never got that far."

Touch was intensely overstimulating. A hand on his wrist sent him into a tailspin of prickling pain, and Athos lost time when his body was tipped forward, plunging into a flood of misfiring signals.

He came back to some semblance of awareness when a bolt of icy coldness splashed across one thigh. The intense shock and pain drove his eyes half-way open and moulded the smears around him into a vague sense of his own apartment.

"Are those bruises going to be visible post-mortem?"

Now the far-away voice was closer. "Possibly. He has very pale skin. They don't usually fight back that hard."

"I told you he was a musketeer."

"Pardon, Monsieur, but I've come across musketeers before, and they weren't _this_ hard to subdue."

"Are his eyes open again?"

Someone gripped him by the hair and pulled his head back. The pain tore a gasp from Athos' throat.

The far-away voice swore heartily. "I've never seen such a determined bastard! I almost admire the poor sod."

"Be careful what you 'almost'."

"Of course, Monsieur. It was just a figure of speech. This will only take a moment now."

Athos could make out his arms stretched in front of him, held in someone else's grip. Then there was only icy coldness and his world shrunk to the driving pain shooting up his arms and swamping his senses.

"Why the bucket of water?"

"Stops the wounds from clotting. He'll bleed out twice as fast. Do you want to watch?"

Fingers wove into his hair, and Athos found himself blinking at the ceiling, his neck stretched to its limit.

"As much as I'd enjoy it, I think this one fears dying alone."

Hot fingers cupped his jaw, and then ghosted up his cheek to wipe another tear from his eye.

"I think we'll leave him here to his disreputable end. All his effort, all his loyalty washed away in a little blood."

Athos could feel the heat of another face cheek to cheek with his own and his mind shied away when damp lips pressed against his temple.

"Goodnight, Athos. Know that you are betraying your friends with your last breath. They will never forgive you. This will be the end of the Musketeers."

8 8 8

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_Summery with Spoilers:_

_Athos is assumed to have cut his own wrists after a night of drinking alone. Various characters struggle with guilt and questions as to who they should blame. Some people see the suicide attempt as the result of an illness, some as an act of betrayal. Eventually it becomes clear that Athos was drugged, and the injury was inflicted by someone else with the intent to deceive._

_(Feel free to PM me if you have further questions or worries about the content)_


	2. A Cold Morning

**Reach Out Your Hand**

8 8 8

**Two: A Cold Morning**

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Athos woke that morning feeling worse than he'd ever felt before.

The world was fuzzy and split into shattered slivers of reality, quivering in time with the pain that throbbed behind his eyes. His head ached terribly, and his body was so cold he couldn't even figure out where his limbs attached.

For a long while he floated on the edge of consciousness, unable to coalesce the multitude of painful senses into anything that resembled reality.

Finally, he pried his gummy eyelids open and tried to make sense of what he saw. There was red. Red and white beyond it, and beyond that a bright shining grey.

Athos blinked and shivered and took gasping huffs of breaths until the picture suddenly made sense. The window. The window with the sunlit wall of the house beyond it, the wall of his room a little closer, and the deep red of his sheets pressed up against his face.

The room wasn't on the angle he was used to waking up to. In fact, Athos began to realise that he was sitting upright on the floor of his room, slumped against the bed.

Why-ever had he decided to sleep on the floor?

Athos made an aborted attempt to pull himself into a more upright seated position, and promptly passed out.

…

When he woke up again his head was hanging low on his chest, and it made it a little easier to think. Very carefully, Athos raised his head and blearily observed the room. He couldn't feel his hands or legs. They were numb with the cold.

What he saw didn't make much sense. His arms were twisted in the sheets, looped up around the foot of his bed. Everything was smeared with rusty red, the sheets, his shirt, the side of the bed. Athos struggled to turn onto his knees, and slowly pushed himself up onto the bed. His legs wobbled and he nearly lost consciousness a couple times, but eventually he collapsed on his side at the end of the mattress and began to untangle his arms from the sheets.

They were sticky. Stuck to the fabric. Bruised and sore and numb.

Athos squinted against his aching head and tried to understand what he was uncovering. The sheets had been wrapped desperately tightly around his wrists. Everything was coated in stringy, flaking, dried… blood? Finally, he tugged away the last of the gory fabric and had his own bare skin to stare at.

"No." Athos' voice came out at a hoarse whisper.

The shock woke him up better than any ice water.

It was like a tear in reality.

He couldn't accept what he was looking at.

Two clean, sharp incisions, one per wrist, now clotted over by the relentless pressure of his twisted sheets.

Closing his eyes, Athos tried to get his breathing back under control. He was close to panic at the revelation. It didn't help that his heart was beating double time, trying to make up the for the lack of blood in circulation. He'd tried to kill himself the night before. The evidence was right before his eyes. After all these years of wishing for an end, he'd finally taken that step over a line he'd sworn he'd never cross. He couldn't have done this. It changed everything he believed about himself.

Clenching a fist in the ruined bedclothes, Athos found oblivion closing in again. He couldn't breathe. It was too much, and he had no strength left to face it. His heart was beating like mad, rising into his throat and choking out every thought. Athos couldn't hold on. He was going to drown in this, and his brother Musketeers would find this mess…

A memory.

Blood, panic and strong arms wrapped around him.

It was Porthos who came to his mind as he reached out in distress for help. Porthos who held him close against his chest that night in the woods when Athos had broken his leg and was drowning in agony. Porthos who counted his breaths, in and out, until Athos could regulate his own breathing. Athos tried to imagine himself back in that safety. It was hard with the ice cold of the room pressing in on him, but eventually the hysteria subsided, and he felt strong enough to open his eyes again.

The room was a harsh reality to face. There was blood everywhere, down his clothes, soaked into the bed, even splattered on the wall. His gory dagger lay on floor near the bucket of washing water, which also seemed to be tainted with blood. Frankly, it was surprising he was still alive.

But Athos _was_ alive, so he had to face the coming day.

He had to lock down his emotions and take the next logical step.

Lying weak and muzzy-headed on his bed, Athos wanted to call for Aramis to heal him, for Porthos to be his strength, and D'Artagnan to bring him hope and energy. He was literally drained of his own life right now, and he needed his brothers more than ever.

But he could not have them, that was becoming clear to him now. Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan could not find out about this deed. It would cut through their brotherhood like a knife, his own selfish act driving them apart. Aramis, he knew, would never forgive him, Porthos would be torn between two brothers in pain, and Athos could never ask him to choose. D'Artagnan: Athos didn't think he could bear to see this disappointment in his protégé's eyes. All three of his companions would try to shoulder some of the blame for him and ask themselves if they could have done more. He knew they would.

Athos had always strongly believed there were two ways to tackle a problem. One way was to ignore it, usually by drowning it in alcohol; this was the method he used to deal with the majority of his personal problems. If a problem couldn't be ignored, the bonds of friendship demanded that he share it with his brother musketeers, as he knew from experience that they'd be angry if he tried to deal with it on his own.

It was stunning to realise that this wasn't a problem he could take to Aramis and Porthos. The very act of telling his friends would destroy their friendship.

Somehow, he had to hide this from them.

There was only one way forward, so Athos set his mind to it. If Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan could not know, Athos would need to seek help elsewhere. As uncomfortable as it made him, he knew he couldn't pull this off on his own, and failure was not an option.

He rinsed his hands in the bloody water, careful to keep clear of the messy wounds, until they were less obviously bloody than before. Athos was loathe to strip off his bloody shirt, so he draped the dark blanket from his bed over his shoulders and then hobbled over to the window. He had to rest when he got there, catching his breath while he leaned against the frame. It took several minutes for the spots of light exploding in his vision to subside. Finally, with shaking hands, he pried open the window. The ends of his fingers and the beds of his fingernails were tinted pale blue, but he could still move them and feel the grain of the rough wood sill, so Athos hoped that was a good sign.

"Jerome!" Athos leaned out the window and called to the young boy who was always loitering in the courtyard below. His voice came out at a low rasp, so he had to call twice to get the boy's attention. He tried to interact with his neighbours as little as possible, but they had all seen him come and go, and knew one of the king's musketeers lived in the upstairs garret.

"Yes, monsieur?" The child came to stand below his window.

Athos flipped him a small coin. "Go find me a trustworthy boy. A big strong lad who can fetch and carry for a day. Then go down to the Bras de Pieuvre and buy me a flagon of meat broth and one of weak beer. Leave it outside my door. You have that?"

Jerome nodded, and Athos tossed him two more coins.

"Hurry. Fast as you can."

As Athos had hoped, Jerome found a willing helper quite quickly, a young man of sixteen who was at least Athos' height. He didn't seem much flustered when Athos answered the door covered in blood, although his eyes widened for a moment.

"Help me clean this up and run three short errands for the day and then forget what you've seen." Athos pulled several heavy coins from his purse, and the boy nodded seriously.

Athos paid him, and then wove his way back to the only chair in the room, leaving the boy to follow behind.

"What do you want first, monsieur?"

"Empty the bucket, take that pitcher, and bring me drinking water and water to wash. Drinking water first."

Quick to comply, the boy brought back a pitcher of drinking water, and Athos drank the entire thing. He was familiar with the symptoms of blood loss and he knew his body was desperately trying to replace the missing blood with any possible liquid, leaving him terribly dehydrated and thirsty.

He passed out for a while and the boy had to shake him awake. He'd refilled the bucket and hauled it up to the garret. Athos eyed the cold water with weary eyes. His hands trembled as he dropped the blanket to the floor. "There's a washing cloth in the cupboard. Please fetch it."

His shirt was ruined; the cream cloth would never lose the heavy staining down the arms or the splatters and drips that covered his chest. Athos tugged it from the waist of his breaches and tried to lift it over his head, but nearly tipped off the chair with the effort. His body couldn't pump blood up his raised his arms and fill his head at the same time.

"May I?" the boy asked.

Athos nodded. How he could still feel shame after he'd committed this worst of betrayals, he didn't know, but it still gnawed at him. He pushed away the hurt. The shirt was pulled over his head and discarded in the corner. By supporting himself with one elbow, Athos was able to slowly wash the blood from his own skin, although his hands were shaking violently by the end.

A knock at the door indicated that Jerome had left the food and drink and Athos downed the broth in one go, still viciously thirsty. It gave him the fortitude to tackle the next hurdle. The sun was fully up now, and he had limited time.

He'd thankfully shed his doublet the night before, and his favourite trousers were still folded with his clean laundry, so he had the boy lay out the fresh clothes on the head of the bed before standing to stagger over. "This is what I need you to do next. Go to the musketeer garrison and give them word that Athos has been delayed at the tailors. That is where you just came from, if they ask. The fitting for my new trousers was mixed up and I will be late to arrive. Got that?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then you must go to the clothiers and buy me a new shirt. Something plain, like I was wearing, and a new set of bedclothes. Finally, you will return here and clean up the blood. There must be no trace of it on the bed, on the floor of the chair. Make up the new bed and you are done. If you can make use of the shirt or the bedclothes they are yours to keep. I will leave the trousers as well, but if you take them you must remove the buttons as my friend will recognize them and would not react well to seeing them on another, should he ever cross your path. Does that sound reasonable?

Athos had been more than generous in his payment, and the boy readily agreed.

After he left Athos painstakingly stripped out of his trousers and braies and washed away the gore that had seeped through his clothes.

It was a lot of blood. Almost too much.

In any other situation Aramis would have him confined to bed, Porthos would raise him up with strong arms and he wouldn't be washing his wounds on his own. But he was, and he had done this to himself, so there was no-one else to blame.

Abandoning the cloth, Athos dropped back on the bed and lay there until his shivering was uncontrollable and the ache of cold bit into his very bones. He didn't need to understand how this had happened. He only needed to concentrate on what came next.

He pictured the expression on his brothers' faces if they found out. If he didn't have the energy for his own care, he could find it for their sakes.

He dressed very slowly, his hands shaking too badly to move any faster, and every time he moved his head swum and consciousness threatened to retreat.

Winter was officially over, but he pulled on his thickest shirt, careful to tuck the long sleeves into his gloves, and took the time to button his doublet up nearly to the collar.

The deep cold stayed, nonetheless.


	3. White Lies

_Ugh. Remind me to never start a story right at the end of the school year. I'm soooooo tired. I can't even think, let alone write._

* * *

Reach Out Your Hand

Three: White Lies

There was no duty set before them for the day, so Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan weren't especially surprised when Athos sent word that his errands were running over-long. Aramis had been hassling him for a few weeks over the paltry state of his wardrobe, so it was good to hear he was finally expanding it.

Athos had looked in fine shape the night before when they'd said their goodbyes. He'd drunk less than an entire bottle of wine to himself and was just starting on his last glass when the others left. Although he was walking a fine line of stress and melancholy the last few weeks, they'd been keeping a close eye on Athos since Milady's return, and he'd been copying fairly well. Even after bracing themselves, following the disaster with Emilie that had cost Treville his captaincy, Athos seemed to be keeping his head. It was mostly by refusing to acknowledge Treville's loss of position, but still. It could have been worse.

"Move over, Aramis. The sun's in my eyes."

Aramis made room on the bench for D'Artagnan. "The sun wouldn't get in your eyes if you wore a hat."

The jibe was old, and D'Artagnan barely even heard it anymore. He had been thoroughly trounced by Porthos several times that morning, and Aramis had suggested a water break to avoid being the next victim of his friend's enthusiasm, so they were all sitting around the table in the courtyard when a cart rolled to a stop outside the garrison and Athos finally appeared in the doorway.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," Porthos said, giving his friend a long once-over. A flutter of something wary began to stir within. "What exactly did you drink last night?"

Aramis and D'Artagnan both turned to look at Athos.

D'Artagnan let out a whistle. "Athos, you look like a dead man come back to life. Maybe you're coming down with something."

"I'm fine. It is nothing."

His voice was a little hoarse, but the sentiment sounded exactly like Athos, and Porthos let some of the anxiety in his chest subside. He really did look awful. Porthos had never seen him look so white; his skin was practically blue in some places where it ought to be pink and freckled. Athos sat down on the end of the bench and propped himself up on the table with both elbows.

They all shared a look over his head.

D'Artagnan grabbed a jug of wine and poured a cup, slapping it down in front of Athos. "Here. Drink something, Athos."

"Soup?"

Aramis frowned. "Soup. You want some soup? Shall I see if Serge has any broth in the pot?"

Athos nodded into his crossed arms.

Dark brows pressed together, Aramis got up from the table and strode into the kitchen.

"You're shivering, mate," Porthos told Athos, staring at him from the opposite seat.

That got him a little sliver of blue and a raised eyebrow. "It's cold."

"Mmm." D'Artagnan looked skeptical. "It's really not. I think you're the one with a cold, Athos."

Athos was always the last to shed his scarf as the weather warmed, and the first to start shivering on winter's approach. But today he was practically disappearing under all his layers. His collar was buttoned high, his hat tilted low, and the folds of his thick blue cloak were wrapped around to cover everything but his boots.

"I am not sick."

"Sure, you're not."

Porthos got up with a mischievous smile and came around to Athos' side of the table. He sat down on the bench and began to shuffle along until he was pressed up against Athos. The swordsman moved over, but D'Artagnan was sitting on the end, and Porthos kept shuffling until Athos was sandwiched between them.

He was definitely scowling now, but Athos said nothing.

Maybe he was sick. More likely he'd succumbed to the call of wine and oblivion, and was feeling the combined effects of guilt and a lower alcohol tolerance than he'd previously boasted. But Athos wouldn't ask for help. He never did. They couldn't pry his troubles out of him or prod him till he spilled. Athos was like a cat, most likely to emerge when he was being ignored.

"I figured it out, D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan knocked his cup against the table and rolled his eyes, carefully overlooking the awkward placement of Athos, wedged between their conversation. "And what's that?"

"Where you're makin' most of your mistakes."

"You can't expect me to beat you at hand to hand combat, when even Aramis and Athos can't take you!"

"Did I say anything about beating me? That's not going to happen, pup. Don't bother trying."

D'Artagnan groaned. "What am I doing wrong, then?"

"You're what – seventeen? You haven't been this height long enough to centre your body-weight correctly."

"Seventeen!? I'm not seventeen!"

A mug clunked down on the table in front of Athos. "Here you are. Broth fresh from the pot. Well, not fresh, perhaps, but Serge said it's good and strong."

Aramis swept his own cloak out behind him and settled down across the table. His dark eyes darted over every visible inch of their friend. Athos almost looked to be leaning into Porthos' body heat, but that couldn't be. It was a vulnerability he'd never show in front of a courtyard of musketeers.

"Thank you," Athos rasped, pulling the mug towards him. He pressed his hands tight around its warmth.

Porthos rallied the conversation again, letting Athos slip into the comfort of their disregard.

They talked about the new horses added to the garrison stable. D'Artagnan offered his opinion on the merits of horse breeders in Gascony over those from Guyenne. Porthos and Aramis had heard of neither and didn't care to hear further. Porthos was considering taking his boots to the cobbler for a new sole. Aramis was certain he could get a couple more months of wear out of them. D'Artagnan disagreed with him, just for something to do.

Athos finished his mug of soup and didn't show any signs of reaching for the leftovers from breakfast.

D'Artagnan began to look longingly over at the training grounds. "Aramis, didn't you say you'd have a look at my aim with my off hand?"

The sharpshooter nodded reluctantly and got to his feet. "Athos, will you come observe?"

There was no response.

"Athos?"

Porthos reached over to tip his hat back and Athos startled violently. He twisted off the bench, and Porthos could have sworn Athos was actually going for his sword, but instead his knees started to buckle, and Porthos had to grab him by the arms.

"Hey! Watch it, mate!"

He scrambled to get a better grip on the swordman's bicep, and for a moment it felt like he was supporting all his weight, as Athos' head dipped down to his chest. Then his hat tumbled off, and Athos blinked up at him. His pale eyes were glassy, failing to focus properly, and his ginger lashes stood out dark against his skin.

"Sit down, Athos. You look ready to collapse." Porthos tried to push warmth and concern into his voice.

"Let go."

Porthos hesitated. He could feel minute tremors running through Athos' frame.

But Athos was looking at Porthos properly now, and his gaze was firm with steel.

Porthos released him and Athos straightened up, pushing away from the table.

Athos, stop." Aramis trotted after him, reaching out a hand to grab Athos by the shoulder. "Look me in the eye. I can tell you have a fever. Let me prepare something for you."

Unfortunately, Athos was faster, and he slipped away from Aramis' grip. "I have no need of your potions, Aramis. There is no fever."

They followed him across the courtyard, D'Artagnan outpacing the others with his long legs and sincere enthusiasm. He snatched up a musket from the closest stand. "Shall we take them out to the target field? We have the time today."

Aramis had both hands on his hips. "Not until Athos gives me permission to take his temperature. If you're coming down with something, we should treat you early."

The two friends squared off, Athos with a stubborn glare on his face, and Aramis frustrated, but unwilling to break Athos' precious boundaries when it wasn't an emergency.

D'Artagnan had no such decorum, and stepped right into Athos' space, causing the shorter man to bump into the shed wall behind him, startled. D'Artagnan reached out and pressed the back of his hand against Athos' forehead. He drew it away before Athos could slap at it.

"Crumbs, Athos! That's no fever. You're freezing! How can you be bundled up so tight and feel so cold?"

"Athos cold? Who would have guessed?" Porthos threw in with a grin.

"I will be fine," Athos insisted in a tone that brooked no room for argument. "If you're quite done, I have better things to do."

He stalked off in the direction of the armoury and his friends let him go.

They thought he was looking for solitude, but in reality Athos was just trying to find somewhere indoors, where it would be even a little bit warmer and he could sit until the world stopped spinning.

8 8 8

Treville had not exactly been looking forward to dropping off the weekly missives with the King's financier. It wasn't a job for the Captain of the King's Musketeers; he usually gave the task to Athos. But Treville wasn't a captain anymore, was he? There was no reason for him to avoid the palace, no matter how awkward it was. Treville was a soldier, and soldiers never shirked their duty.

Besides, it was probably just as painful for Athos, seeing his wife blatantly flaunting her affair with the king every time he worked at the palace.

"Captain Treville."

The voice that called out behind him was smooth and cultured, reassuring even in the span of two words. But Treville knew, without looking around, that there would be a curious lack of emotion in the speaker's eyes. If he was a little more sensitive to the hidden currents of communication, if he had Aramis' sharp eyes, or Athos' radar for double-talk, his hair would probably be standing on end. But as it was, he merely felt the soldier's instinct that he was in the presence of someone dangerous.

"Rochefort," Treville turned and gave the noble a small bow in greeting. "You know I'm no longer a Captain."

Rochefort gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But your musketeers are unshakably loyal. I'm sure it is only a matter of time before you are reinstated as their leader."

"Perhaps," Treville conceded. "I will serve the king in whatever way he sees fit."

With a nod of acquiescence, Rochefort strolled a little closer. He was wearing an ornate doublet, heavily embroidered, with the neck cut most of the way down his chest. Several jeweled chains sparkled against the exposed skin of his sternum. The fashion wasn't uncommon, but something about the way Rochefort wore it gave the style a thick air of the obscene. Treville suddenly felt terribly out of place. He resisted the urge to straighten out the scarred surface of his heavy leather doublet.

"Are you short men right now?"

"Pardon?" Treville frowned.

Rochefort tossed a pale hand in his direction. "We usually see… What is his name? I see him so often…" He hooked one finger and clawed it at his upper lip.

"Athos." Treville answered without thinking, and then felt a flush of anger. The scar that cut through Athos' entire upper lip, even twisting into the base of his nose, was almost invisible, a faded remnant of a childhood he refused to speak of. The only reason it was even noticeable was because his moustache grew crooked around the scar. It was insulting to Athos, his character and all that he had accomplished, to identify him by a small physical flaw. Treville was ashamed that he had even recognized Rochefort's gesture.

"Yes, Athos. Is he not your usual messenger?"

"I entrust Athos with many things," Treville said around clenched teeth, "but we share our tasks between all Musketeers. No man is above his duty."

"Of course. Forgive my impertinence. I only asked out of concern. Several of the staff have been ill as of late, and I would hate to see the same sickness had passed along to your men."

Treville accepted the apology with a nod. There was something more behind Rochefort's question, but there was no point in trying to guess what. The Comte was a man of too many layers of deception. Who knew what lay behind it all?

If he had stayed instead of giving a swift farewell, Treville would have seen Rochefort turn on his heels and head back to his office, walking quickly. He would have seen the Comte shut the doors behind him and lock them with a key that hung on a long chain around his neck, tucked nearly into the waist of his breeches. After the door was secured, he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a plain box.

The box held a strange assortment of things, ribbons, jewelry, a belt buckle, a dagger and several locks of hair. A loop of string from the top of the box was what he pulled out. Rochefort held it up to the light from the high window. The string was stained a dark reddish brown, and at the bottom a single brass button swung with each of his breaths. A few spots of red-brown flaked off the button and Rochefort caught one of them in his palm. When it hit the damp surface it dissolved into a spot of scarlet.

Rochefort frowned, his pale brow pressing together. He tucked the button into the pocket of his doublet and locked away the box.

There was someone outside of the palace that he needed to speak with.


	4. Cracks Form

_Heads up that some of the characters in this chapter will be dealing with some shock. Give them time._

* * *

**Reach Out Your Hand**

**888**

**Four: Cracks Form**

Porthos and D'Artagnan were practising throws when Aramis returned. "Did you find him?"

Aramis nodded, looking bemused. "He's sleeping."

"Sleeping?" D'Artagnan's face scrunched up in bewilderment.

"He fell asleep in the armoury. Must be sick for sure. I suggest we avoid disturbing him and let him rest awhile."

Porthos let out a whistle. "Gotta be some nasty cold to knock out Athos. Poor bugger. We'll drag him home early after lunch."

In the familiarity of their home and workplace, the warmth of the midday sun and the camaraderie of peers and brothers, the worries of the morning had evaporated and Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan let themselves believe that Athos would be right as rain with a little care and some forced rest.

He was groggy and grumpy when they woke him up and dragged him to the table for lunch, but he ate a full meal and looked a little less pale in the full sun.

"Take my bed," Aramis prodded him. "You shouldn't go back to your rooms on your own. I want to keep an eye on you, and if you leave the garrison I'll be forced to follow you. Stay here for the night."

Athos blinked at him, his hooded eyes refusing to even hint at what he felt inside.

"Don't make Aramis set up camp on your floor tonight, Athos," Porthos cajoled. "That ain't nice."

"Fine."

Aramis looked surprised. He'd expected a harder fight.

"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," D'Artagnan muttered under his breath, and got up to haul Athos to his feet.

Athos shook him off, but stumbled along as Aramis led the way to the back of the barracks where the sharpshooter had a private room. Athos looked half-asleep and didn't seem to realise they were putting him to bed in the middle of the day.

Porthos tugged off Athos' boots, a little surprised that his friend was wearing entirely fresh clothes, and Aramis went to unbutton his doublet, as Athos seemed to have already passed out.

A gloved hand caught his wrist.

"No."

"You want to sleep with your doublet on? Athos, don't be ridiculous."

"Cold."

Aramis tugged a little harder, but Athos refused to let go.

"Fine!" Aramis threw up his hands. "On your own head be it, if you wake up a sweaty, uncomfortable mess."

They piled him with blankets and left Athos to rest.

8 8 8

"You appear to be pleased with yourself, Monsieur Guérin."

"Hmm?"

The man standing at the top of the walled walk was obviously overseeing the construction below, but he wasn't one of the labourers. His clothing, though plain, was too high quality, and there was too much intelligence shining in his bright blue eyes. Monsieur Guérin was of that curious build, broad shouldered with a chest like a brick wall, that almost looked as if he were as wide as he was tall. With his squared jaw, fair features, and the light crinkles around his eyes, the effect came off as handsome instead of thuggish.

"Ah. The Comte de Rochefort." Guérin gave a little bow to the approaching noble. "The construction is going well, and there is great satisfaction in seeing one's wealth well-used."

Rochefort joined him in looking down at the work. "An addition to the rectory?"

"Yes. A new building to house a kitchen. There are many worthy poor in Paris who lack even the most basic of daily meals. It has long been a desire of the brothers of St. Juste to feed the poor, and I'm giving them the means to do so."

There was no comprehension in Rochefort's eyes as he turned back to look at Guérin. Perhaps he'd once felt compassion, but for years the only soft feelings Rochefort had nurtured were steeped in lust and envy. "Not what I would choose to do with my income, but I have no objections once your job is done."

Guérin gave Rochefort an assessing look. "You came to me because I am the best, Monsieur le Comte. I never leave a job undone."

"And yet the Musketeers roam the palace unmolested."

"I am not an assassin. I manufacture accidents. You were quite satisfied with my methods two days ago."

Rochefort made a sound close to a hiss and pressed something into Guérin's hand. "I'm starting to think you weren't even successful at that first step."

There had been humour in Guérin's eyes until this remark, but now he drew all his attention away from the construction. He looked down at the blood-stained string, with the tiny brass button. His face took on a harder look. "What do you mean? The musketeer…"

"I've seen no sign of him. But Treville didn't even look concerned when I asked after his men. I don't want a souvenir from a man who's not even dead!"

"I'll look into this. Perhaps this… Athos… is even stronger than I gave him credit for." Guérin didn't bother hiding his distaste with the bloody token as he tucked it into his pocket. It didn't change the way he addressed the noble, though. "Regardless, you have no need to worry, Monsieur le Comte. He cannot incriminate you, and any evidence they find will only serve to dig him into a deeper hole. We've driven a crack into the foundation of the musketeers, and I swear to you there's no way it will survive."

Rochefort took a deep breath and nodded. "Your life depends on that, Guérin."

"My honour depends on it," Guérin stated. "They'll begin to crumble. Soon they'll be divided, and the next musketeer to leave the flock is mine, you have my word."

8 8 8

Athos slept right through the night, waking twice to drink more broth, then falling asleep again without protest. Aramis sat beside the bed, feet up on the bedspread beside his friend, book of poetry in hand. Sometimes he stared out the window when his eyes got sore.

It was odd. There's was something ominous about Athos' behaviour. In anyone else it would be unnoticeable, but for Athos it was almost _needy_, and that was something he'd never seen before.

They had always been willing to offer Athos all that he had needed. It was the swordsman that turned away comfort, help and companionship. Even facing death, he was willing to walk alone. Why seek them out now?

8 8 8

Aramis came awake with a start, jolted from sleep when his book slid from his lap and hit the floor.

He groaned, blinking and stretching his aching neck.

"Athos?"

He stumbled to his feet and peered at the bed. It was empty.

"Blast it."

From his window Aramis could see a familiar soft brown hat at the table in the courtyard. Porthos was there as well, so Aramis took his time working the kinks out of his back, doing his morning toilette and washing the stale taste out of his mouth. He'd wanted to examine Athos properly before he escaped for the day, but if the swordsman had already slipped out of his grasp he might as well properly prepare himself the hassle of tracking Athos down and seeing he was medicated and well cared for, by force, if need be. Thank all that was holy that Porthos out-weighed Athos, significantly. If it wasn't possible to hold him down, who knew how they'd ever treat him.

Aramis finally sauntered out into the daylight, looking dapper as ever.

"Good morning, Aramis. You lost your patient overnight." Porthos gave him a grin with a few too many teeth. He had Athos pushed up against the end of the bench again, a full plate of food and several mugs of drink before him. "I found him wandering all on his own."

Aramis bristled at Porthos' unspoken accusation. "_Num custos fratris mei sum ego_?"

Porthos didn't have the education of his two peers and could only frown and assume Aramis had found yet another Biblical verse to back up his point. There was no slipping the reference past the nobleman in their midst, though.

With a huff of air, Athos gave Aramis a wry smile. "_Am I my brother's keeper?_"

"Maybe not the best reference," Aramis conceded, sitting down at the table. "Are you going to eat all that?"

"Yes, he is," Porthos said, at the same time that Athos pushed the plate across to Aramis.

Aramis took up a large biscuit. "Where's D'Artagnan?" he asked around a full mouthful.

"He's already been through," Athos said.

"And here he is, back again."

Treville and D'Artagnan came riding into the garrison, dismounting and turning to the three Inseparables as soon as they were spotted.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis," Treville beckoned them to follow him. "We've just come from the palace. Le Comte de Rochefort has an urgent message he needs delivered to Le Havre."

"Why aren't the Red Guard taking it, then?" Porthos asked, jumping up from the table to stride after Treville.

"It's complicated," Treville let the largest musketeer pass him and mount the stairs up to the second-floor walkway. "But mostly because Rochefort asked it of the king."

D'Artagnan had paused at the table to prod at Aramis, cocking an eyebrow in Athos' direction. The sharpshooter shrugged.

"Athos, are you coming?" D'Artagnan asked. On a good day, Athos spent a lot of time quietly off in his own head, but there was something a little alarming about his eyes this morning, as if he weren't lost in his own thoughts, but lost entirely.

"Of course."

D'Artagnan looked a little skeptical of the reassuring look Athos tried to give him, but he left Athos to follow behind, and bounded up the stairs behind Aramis. Their backs were all turned, so nobody saw Athos use both hands to push himself up to his feet, and steady himself as he walked the length of the table.

Maybe if they'd been looking very hard, they might have seen the fear in his eyes as Athos began to climb the stairs after the other Musketeers.

It was Porthos who had just jumped off the top step and turned onto the walkway, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Athos pause. There was something wrong about the movement, and he turned to see the swordsman waver at the first landing. Athos' face was paper white, and as Porthos watched his blue eyes rolled back in his head and he tipped over backwards, legs slowly folding underneath him.

Porthos let out a wordless cry, flinging out a hand over the railing even though he was much too far away to reach. Treville turned back, then Aramis and D'Artagnan in a ripple of motion that was too late to help. D'Artagnan jumped the last four steps to the landing, but his long fingers fell short of Athos' doublet.

Athos dropped a distance before his shoulders slammed into the steps and his body was propelled backwards over his head into a tumble that continued the length of the stairs, slamming him from one side of the stairs to the other until he finally rolled to the dirt floor of the courtyard and came to a stop, legs sprawled and torso twisted.

"Athos!" D'Artagnan took the rest of the stairs in two bounds, calling out in something closer to a scream than a shout. He skidded to his knees beside Athos, reaching out to grip him by the shoulders.

Aramis came flapping down right after him in a swirl of cape and leather. His movements were as graceful as ever as he jumped over Athos to kneel on his other side, but his eyes were wide and desperate. "Athos. Brother. Can you hear me?"

He pushed back D'Artagnan, who had begun to shake the unresponsive musketeer. "Stop! You could hurt him further!"

Skin a terrifying white, Athos looked like a corpse. His lips were a pale blue, and blood dribbled from one side of his mouth and slid across his forehead from a fresh gash near his hairline. Aramis stripped off his gloves and felt for a pulse.

"What happened?" Treville demanded, as he and Porthos crowded around.

"I don't know," Aramis muttered. "His pulse is weak and much too fast.

Porthos violently gestured over his shoulder at the stairs. "I was watching. He just dropped. No warning. Something must be wrong! He's been ill. Maybe he's injured."

D'Artagnan's face was screwed up with distress. "He won't wake up."

"Athos." Aramis slapped gently at the side of Athos' face, but he remained limp and dead to the world. "His skin is cold and clammy. I think he's going into shock."

"Can we move him?" Treville asked.

Pulling aside the scarves Athos had wrapped around his throat, Aramis palpitated his friend's neck, and then carefully felt his way down Athos' spine. "I don't think his back is broken. He's wearing so many layers today, I can't tell if his ribs are intact."

D'Artagnan had wiggled his way closer and slipped his arms under Athos' torso. He was openly crying, unashamed of the tears running down his cheeks. Athos' head dropped back over D'Artagnan's arm, and Aramis reached out to support it.

"Here." Porthos shouldered his way beside them and tried to scoop Athos from D'Artagnan's arms. For a moment the younger man resisted, but Porthos met his eyes with warm empathy. "Take his legs, mate. We want to keep him as level as possible, and Aramis here is much too short."

Nodding eagerly, D'Artagnan hurried to comply.

Porthos lifted him easily, with his arms wrapped around Athos' torso.

"Keep his feet higher than his head, D'Artagnan," Aramis said, sharply.

"Take him up to the bed in my office," Treville directed, momentarily forgetting that the abandoned room was no longer his office. "It's got the best heating and if he's injured I don't want him near Victor sick in the infirmary."

D'Artagnan went first up the stairs, Porthos following, and between the two of them they had no trouble getting Athos up to the office. Aramis squeezed alongside them, tugging off Athos' belt when his sword caught on the railing.

"On the bed. Here."

Aramis kicked the door further open and held it out of the way while Treville pulled the cot closer to the fire and threw all the bedding to the side. They quickly lay him down, stuffing several cushions under his feet. Athos had yet to show any sign of waking.

"D'Artagnan, hot water. Porthos, we need more light in here, and then I need my kit. I think it's packed into my saddlebag."

By now D'Artagnan had learned not to argue with Aramis when it came to medical matters, so he rushed out the door. Porthos ripped the drapes away from the windows and turned up the oil lamp. "What's the matter? Any idea, Aramis?"

Aramis had begun to unbutton Athos' doublet. "Get his boots off, Captain. I need to see what his injuries are. It looks like bleeding, but I don't see anything. If he's been bleeding internally, I don't know how long he's been hiding it, because we've had no fights to cause it…"

There was no hiding the grimace on Porthos' face as he left to find Aramis' medical supplies. Internal injuries had spelled the end of many a soldier. There was little to be done for most of them. Athos couldn't be added to their number.

"He's shivering, Aramis."

"I know." Aramis glanced back at Treville. "Cover him with all the blankets for now. We need to keep him warm. He's wearing so many layers. I should have guessed he was hiding something from us."

Athos' gloves got stuck in the sleeve of his doublet, and Aramis gave them a hard tug. He pulled Athos forward into a faux hug while detangling the doublet from behind him. That's when he noticed there was now blood on his hands. Aramis paused, staring over his friend's shoulder at the smears of fresh blood on his fingers. It wasn't on his palms, which had been touch the back of Athos' shirt. It was on the pads of his fingers. His brain was slowly turning circles. He'd picked up fresh blood. Disturbed a scabbed wound? Aramis slowly lowered Athos back to the bed. He tossed the doublet to the side, scooting backwards on the mattress as he looked down.

Red. The cuff of Athos' right sleeve was spotted with fresh blood.

He froze for a minute, almost tentative as he reached out for the sleeve. Athos had had his shirt sleeves tucked into his doublet, with the cuffs rolled down and buttoned. All of it was securing a linen bandage around his wrist. The bandage itself was white, but pulling off his gloves had dislodged the fabric and now a small amount of blood stained his skin.

Aramis reached forward, taking Athos' hand in his. It was cold, the nail beds faintly blue. Pushing back his sleeve, Aramis could see the bandage ran around Athos' wrist and forearm. He felt cold. Fumbling with the other hand, he saw Athos' left wrist was also bandaged.

_No._ He prayed silently._ Not this. Please not this._

Aramis carefully unwrapped the bandage. The deep red incision on the inside of Athos' wrist was barely clotted over, the wound red, its edges clean and precise, and very intentional.

"I've got his boots off and his feet raised. Do you need me to-"

Aramis lurched to his feet, stumbling towards the door.

"Aramis?"

Treville was saying something, but the blood was rushing in his ears too loud to hear. Then the door opened right in his face and Porthos almost knocked into him. Aramis felt broad hands grip his biceps.

"Aramis, what happened? Aramis? Is Athos alright? Treville… Oh…" Porthos swore right in his ear, and Aramis forced himself to turn and look over his shoulder. Treville had seen the wound. He had slipped off the edge of the cot and was sitting on the floor, eyes wide. Athos' bare arms were laid out on the coverlet, palms up.

Porthos moved, and Aramis suddenly felt cold where Porthos' broad hand had left him. He felt unmoored.

"Athos!"

Aramis blinked. Porthos was holding him, holding Athos, wrapped around him like he'd met an honourable end, like Athos hadn't just spat in the face of their years of brotherhood, of their beliefs, of every hour they'd spent with him, every support they'd offered.

"Why?" Treville was asking. "I don't' understand."

Why?

Selfishness. Blasphemous, cruel, selfishness.

"Aramis, what do we do? Do these need stitching? Should they be bandaged again?"

He finally managed to focus on Porthos' stricken expression. "What would be the point of that, exactly?"

Aramis pushed his way out the door and left.


End file.
